


we can meet in the middle

by teavious



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus runs from places and from things; the past glued to his skin as the only thing that matters. It gets easier, when raw wound is met with kindness and compassion, to accept the burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we can meet in the middle

**Author's Note:**

> You can find some of my other tsoa fics on tumblr, over @imaginepatrochilles. I really liked this prompt we received: "Patroclus seeking solace from his abusive father and absent mother in Achilles home", so I did went a little crazy with it, hah.

His house has always been silent, in ways that a healthy child cannot fully comprehend. He has run on empty hallways, the echo of his footsteps the only sound, and he has never questioned it: the emptiness, the nothingness of his home. He has listened to it, at night, the wind through the trees too sharp to allow him to sleep. He have tasted it, while eating in the big hallway, servants silently making their way around him, only the booming orders of his father rippling through the air.

It is broken sometimes. By his mother’s wailings, when she can remember horrible things, but she’s rapidly silenced; sometimes through a calming tea, a hushing voice of a voice herding her to sleep, and sometimes with a blow, in the rare moments when she’s in the presence of her husband and his men. Patroclus sees this and does not question it, not knowing other ways in which this could be. He crawls on the floor to sit next to his mother, in the darkest corner of the room, and does not wander how it would be if gods had given her more beauty or land, to end with another man, or more wits or wisdom, to end up alone or armed. He takes hold of her fingers, pressing them gently, giving her comfort in the only way he has ever received it during the times when she could remember, at least, that this child is supposed to mean something to her.

Some other times, it’s the clumsiness of new servants: plates scattered on the floor in tens of small pieces, blood trailing from their fingers tips and they try to clean it up as efficiently as possible. The sound is always sharp, no matter how many times it happens, and it resides in his bones for hours afterwards, making his skin prickle and bringing a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth. He trains then, the only way everyone’s ever thought him how to deal with confusion, with his own emotions. He doesn’t mind the sharp sounds, as spear hits target after target, as weapons rattle in his hands as he positions himself, as his breathe turns ragged and desperate, as his world gets reduced to shrieks of pain and curses, prayers and grunts of frustration, when other join him for training. He’s left with his own ears buzzing, blood sipping in the ground below him, dust sticking to his sweat, making his body itch and the assurance that he’s worth nothing, like the only line he allows to play over and over in his mind, coming over and over from his own father.

His vision seems to shift, as people gather and gather in their own yard, filling their land, all glowing bodies, promising smiles and _noise._ So much noise that Patroclus feels like he’s drowning, with nothing to hold on to, and the sharp grip on his shoulder as his father hisses in his ear to behave only reminds him of the strangled sob on his tongue, of the helplessness he felt when he was not deemed worthy to be one of those boys in front of him, playfully punching each other, making the men around them laugh as loudly as thundering. He sits in his chair, watching feat after feat, imprinting in his memory the way their oiled bodies moved, replaying it long afterwards in a desperate attempt to reach them, somehow. The crown might have been his, under different circumstances, if he had worked harder, if he had not given up so easily, knowing he’ll never be worthy. He lets his fingers dig painfully in the golden hair of the winner and refuses to smile.

When he grows up a little more, he starts figuring out some other sounds as well, during the nights when sleep doesn’t come anymore. The feverish, giggling hushes of the servants finally left off the hook, shoving each other against hard, cold walls and for sure not feeling it for the hot kisses their loves leaves on their skin. The rustle of clothing, the hurried steps towards a promise that, at last, can be fulfilled. It makes him dizzy with the familiarity of the sounds, always accompanying his father’s room when he was young and used to wait in front of it for the courage to knock and lay out all his weaknesses. He has no doubts this is common even now, and Patroclus burns with shame and anger, and acts on neither of his feelings. He waits, holding his breath, catching the moans of a woman, high and full of pleasure, the rapid, hectic grunts of a man, low rumbling curses. He digs his face in his pillow and wishes for silence, just as the couple reaches their peak.

Still, no sound from back what he likes to call his lands, is as loud as the request to give up the only nice thing that was meant for him, and him only. He had spent hours spinning the dice around his palm, marveling at the easiness with which it glided along his skin, the attentiveness to the paintings on it. He had found in that small object all that he didn’t in his constantly pushy father, in what was an absent mother. And so, he had not dared showing it to anyone, enjoy it in other presence but utter silence, utter loneliness. So that noble boy comes as a surprise, and so does his strength as he pushes against his body, only to not even see the part that truly shatters. There’s blood, and it feels like it’ll stick to his sandals and feet forever, something to haunt him from now on, but there’s also silence – and that is familiar and that, that he can handle.

Or at least he believed it until only silence, poignant and grave silence meets his confession. It’s the relief that finally, all the doubts are released, all Patroclus’ potential drained.

In comparison, Achilles’ house is thunderous. From the continuous vigilance of a goddess, her waves licking the shore, tasting the world, reminding everyone of where her son is standing and of how he’ll drown the doubters in their own blood or from a man who has shown kindness, understanding, appreciation more often than anger, violence, power. He spends the first few hours after meeting the king thinking, numbly, over and over again: _he is like me, he is like me, not a man, not really._ But then he sees the revered bows, the awed whispers at his wisdom, at a youth he knew to accept, if not love or enjoy. Peleus has been chosen by the gods themselves to bear a child the whole world looks out for, and if that is his proudest accomplishment, then it rings hollow and foreign in Patroclus’ mind. He sticks his empty, still shaking and fisted hands against the valleys of his eyes and presses hard, harder, as hard as he can.

The shame burns bright when he meets Achilles, the golden son of a nation, the blessed, the rich, everything Patroclus might have once wanted to be, and never got to be. He can fear the same buzzing in his ears as when he’s fighting, but this time it’s his mind that’s trying to stay focused and sharp, and yet he loses, constantly, in face of this boy who’s nothing more but himself, in all. It’s strange, how even when he’s not present, he can hear each of his steps: high greetings from servants and orphaned boys, waves raging just that little bit louder when he passes by, fingers over harp strings and strangely familiar songs in the dead hours of the afternoon. Since no one stirs him in any direction, since here are less orders to follow than in his own house, Patroclus listens, lets his chest be filled with this realization that people go on with their lives around him, undisturbed by his existence among them.

The other boys are loud and boisterous, in ways Patroclus cannot comprehend anymore, and it scares him their freedom, the easiness with which they let their mouth curve upwards and their chest boom with unhidden laughter, their complaints sharp and loud and alive, never stopped, always fed by their king’s attention, Achilles’ passing. It makes him sick and he wants to find a dark corner and crawl there, shutting out this strange new world where he was sent in, but it seems like this place is made of light and _oh_ , this boy shines brighter than anything Patroclus ever seen, so he’s caught there, dazed and struck as by the hilt of a sword so he sits, juice from a fruit sipping between his fingers, an elbow in his ribs, a song stuck at the back of his throat. Then, with a sigh and a throw, reflexes etched in his body from all the fighting he’s endured, everything changes. It seems minimal, just the slightest shift, allowing more – what, exactly, he’s not sure he can name- and Patroclus remembers warm rocks under his feet, basket of figs precariously balanced in his hands, the smell washing over him with the same intensity his love for this fruit has once been, all while the comforting sounds of boys alive and in love with living go on and on.

It’s stranger, yet, how he can add a visual to the sound of Achilles playing without one reprimand. It warms him, knowing his mother, his at least kind mother, loved this enough to leave it behind for others to enjoy, as well. He knows what his father would have thought about the situation, _he’s not as strong as I first believed and you’re more of a fool than I first believed,_ but, he thinks with a shake of his head, he’s got better at ignoring this. He’s got better at appreciating the praises when they come, even if he does not believe them. He’s got better at reading the strange, near-perfect boy and the ways in which his life work. He’s glad for this – and, suddenly, Achilles stops playing, hovering before him, though the song still seems to echo in Patroclus’ bones. There’s the faintest of touches at his cheek, and it’s this so well-intended kindness that kills him, that makes him doubt all that he’s learn, even his own being.

He’s glad when Achilles finally calls out his name, _Pa-tro-clus_ , and he’s remade with every syllable.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
